


Stacked

by QuizzicalQuinnia



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Awkward Flirting, F/M, Fluff, Libraries, Slow Burn, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-23
Updated: 2014-07-26
Packaged: 2018-02-10 02:04:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2006877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QuizzicalQuinnia/pseuds/QuizzicalQuinnia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a lonely, dim academic library, there is an ancient table that has seen it all. </p><p>Brienne Tarth just wants to finish her doctoral degree, preferably from her seat behind that table. Professor Jaime Lannister didn't get the memo; he only knows of her reputation as a topnotch research assistant, and wants to poach her from the snitty Professor Stark. </p><p>When Brienne issues a challenge of skill Jaime can't refuse, she finds herself in over her head as she faces him across the table each day, until a moldy book makes him cross an invisible barrier to her side.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Challenge

**Author's Note:**

> Well...I haven't dusted off my fic fingers in ages, but Mikki over at JaimeBrienne.com liked a comment I made about a library table. This is the result, and it's much longer than I had anticipated, maybe a three-shot? Not smutty 'til the end, but lots of fluff and academics. 
> 
> Un-beta'd, unashamed. I own all the words but the words GRRM owns. (Does anyone else say it as "germ" like me? Hehe).

                                           

The National Museum in King’s Landing was a glittering marble structure, an homage to a bygone age when knights and ladies traveled the streets on velvet-curtained palanquins and lily-white destriers. All was bright and beautiful, except the academic library occupying the oldest corner of the oldest wing. The walls were time-weathered dark wood from the north, the floors rough Dornish clay, the tall ceiling an example of the hundred-year-old fad of iron beams and glass to let the sky in. Everywhere possible was wedged a bookcase, built into all those wooden walls, and freestanding as narrow aisles like a labyrinth. A spiral staircase wound its way to the excuse of a second floor, merely a ledge wrapping around the perimeter to allow access to more cases. 

Lit only by a dim overhead lamp, in the furthest, most-buried section where the books on historic justice were kept, Brienne Tarth sat in a smooth wooden chair behind a smooth wooden table that had once graced some noble hall in the west. It had seen better days two hundred years ago. Now, it was an unforgiving slab, sturdy and gouged by a thousand pencils, scarred by lovers’ initials and rings of coffee spilled by sleep-deprived studious hands. One or two of those rings were made by Brienne herself as she occupied her hermitage in the stacks where no one ever found her reading crumbling pages and typing furiously with callused fingers. 

Of course, they weren’t looking for her. Very few purposefully sought Brienne’s company. She was too quiet. Too serious. Too tall. Academics were supposed to be quiet and serious, but in her world inhabited mostly by aging men, Brienne didn’t fit. They didn’t take her seriously because she was a woman reading for a doctorate in some obscure field no one cared about. They didn’t like her because she had the audacity to consider herself intelligent. They couldn’t see her eyes because they were too short. 

All of these explained why Brienne had been completely shocked the first time Doctor Jaime Lannister appeared on the other side of her table wearing a fine gray suit and a cocky smile.

“Hello there, wench. How’s the thesis coming?”

She’d stared at him with wide eyes that seemed to make him nervous after a span. She remained silent.

“Why yes, I’m fine, too, thanks for asking.” He’d crossed his arms over his chest, not letting the smile fall.

She’d had to clear her throat before the words were allowed to come out. “You’re not supposed to be here.”

“I’ve more right here than you until you get that degree. My permission doesn’t expire, wench.” He’d somehow grinned even wider.

Brienne had felt her brows draw together in a mild sort of anger. “I refuse to engage in this oddity of a conversation unless you stop calling me wench. My name is Brienne.”

“I know.” He’d shrugged as if it didn’t matter.

“It matters to me,” she’d insisted, still mild though steel had begun to show.

“You don’t want to know how I know? I’ll tell you…Professor Stark speaks very highly of your abilities as her research assistant. _Very_ highly. I happen to be in need of such a fine individual, and I intend to poach you. I said as much, and though she hates me, she knows quite well that a position as my assistant is sort of great for you bright young things. She’s quaking in fear of your loss, _Brienne_.” He’d drawled out her name as if testing its flavor on his tongue.

Her brows had remained furrowed, and she’d stayed silent until his eyes lost some of the smile. “I perform research for credit. I am no one’s assistant.”

His brows had shot up before he could stop them, but he’d recovered quickly. “Hmm.”

She’d tried out some sort of glare. “Off with you.”

He’d laughed outright then, in a sincere way that she’d known wasn’t part of his façade. “Oh, I think not. You’re absurd.” He’d laughed and laughed.

Whatever growing amusement she might have felt faded away. That had been a new one, _absurd_. She was used to _ugly, stupid, incapable, cow, drag queen, beast_ , and _dimwit_. She’d always convinced herself that new ones were just like old ones, immaterial and to be ignored as the opinion of idiots. But still…sometimes her mantra didn’t work.

His smile had fallen. He’d uncrossed his arms and let them fall to his sides. He’d seen, she’d assumed. She’d let something show on her face, that it had bothered her. He’d parted his lips to prepare a speech.

“Don’t,” she’d demanded.

Lips had closed. For a bit, and then, “You seem to be in a mood to hate me. I accept it graciously and withdraw, but I give you fair warning that I shall return with gifts and fine words to sway your view.” He’d spoken in a ridiculous, affected accent that tried to mimic the olden days, and he’d bowed nearly to the floor before wandering away. She’d heard him whistling until the great wooden door banged shut behind him.

 

* * *

 

The second time Professor Lannister appeared, Brienne had been in the middle of a particularly difficult text, half the words faded away by water stains and her eyes nearly crossed from scanning exhaustion.

“Gods, wench, you’ll go blind with that intensity.”

She’d been awake for far too long, had consumed huge amounts of coffee, and was nearly vibrating in her chair from the combined anxiety and exhaustion. She’d barely been able to focus her eyes to see him, but when she had, he was staring at her quite blatantly.

There’d been no point in pretending to be comfortable. “That bad?”

“Absolutely dreadful, yet somehow not.” He’d rested his fists on the table and leaned closer toward her, still staring straight into her eyes.

“I’ve no idea what you mean.”

“Your eyes are very blue,” he’d said as if it puzzled him.

“I’m aware. Some people have them, a newfangled notion called genetics.”

“You’re saucy, wench.”

She’d risen from her chair on shaky knees, resting her fists on the table just like he had. “My name is Brienne.”

“I know. Gods, you’re tall. Blue-eyes and tall. Hmm.”

“Why do you keep saying that?”

“Trying to puzzle you out.” He’d leaned more casually, putting a few more inches between them.

“It’s very simple, Professor Lannister. Female, twenty-six, doctoral candidate. Off with you.”

His grin had appeared once more. “I think there’s much more to you than that, wench.”

She’d growled audibly. “Just because I’m reading medieval does not allow you to call me wench as if I’m a barmaid.”

“You’d make a terrible barmaid. You’d throw drinks at people you thought were stupid.”

“That would be everyone.”

“Especially me.” He’d winked at her. Winked!

She’d wanted to say, _yes, especially you_ , but she hadn’t. Silence.

“Ah..." His eyes had gleamed. “You don’t think I’m stupid, then.”

“I don’t think you are stupid.” She’d hoped the subtext would be apparent.

He’d heard it. “There it is…I’m glad we’ve arrived at the heart of the matter. You think my field is stupid. You wouldn’t be the first.”

“Your field is stupid. You made it up, everyone knows that.”

“Yes, that’s exactly how intelligent I am, wench. I made up my own field, got a doctorate in it, and now I’m tenured here for eternity while I study whatever I want, teach whatever I want, and take sabbaticals in the Summer Isles.” His grin that time had been sly.

“You’re ridiculous,” she’d accused without thinking.

“Probably. I accept that the history of insults is not a highly-respected field, but I’d like to know one thing, hmm?” He’d waited for her to accept, a strange look of intent on his face.

She hadn’t wanted to, but she’d asked anyway. “What?”

“Why are you allowed to call me ridiculous without any malice in the words, but I’m not allowed to call you absurd without you growing gray and hurt? There was no malice on my part either, I assure you.” He’d waited again.

She’d struggled to form her words, as she so often did. “There’s mostly only malice.”

He’d paused for a long time. “Be my assistant.”

“I am no one’s assistant.”

He’d bowed, not as low as the time before. “All right, wench. Until next time.”

She’d waited until his steps echoed near the door, shouting across the space, “Where are my gifts?”

 

* * *

 

Every time he’d appeared thereafter, he’d brought something new. A doughnut, a pen shaped like a sword, an entire lasagna that left a rectangular heat mark on the old table. And each time he’d plead the same thing. “Be my assistant.”

He’d pop in once or twice a week, and now, on his ninth visit, he brought a white box tied with a red ribbon. He set it right in front of her, atop the fragile manuscript she read, and changed his habit of leaning on the table, instead dragging a chair over the clay tile to set across from her. It made a hideous scraping sound that flooded the entire library, but as usual no one else was there to hear.

“What are you doing?” Brienne asked as she stared alternately at the box and at him.

“Sitting. It’s a thing you do when you utilize an object on which to rest your ass.” He reclined in the chair without a care in the world.

“Rest your ass elsewhere, Professor Lannister. I’m busy.” She gently pushed the box off her text and pretended to keep reading.

“Jaime.” He leaned over the table on folded elbows.

“What?”

“My name is Jaime.”

She allowed herself to glance at him, his green eyes closer than they ever had been. “Loathe as I am to admit it, you are my superior. In title only, but it would be unprofessional to address you so casually.”

“In title only? There must be other ways in which I am superior, wench.”

“You are a superior ass.” She peered right at him.

He burst out laughing, but it didn’t bother her anymore. “Please, please be my assistant.”

She’d given up her previous dismissal. “I work for Professor Stark.”

“Only for another week. Think I don’t know that?” He leaned somehow closer. “She’s off for a term up north. I know you’ll be free, and I know you haven’t yet taken another position despite being sought after. And I was first in line!”

There was small part of her, very small, that thought it might be fun to work with him. The much larger and more sensible part knew it would be a nightmare of distractions. She carefully closed her text to avoid damage and set her pencil in a straight line above it. “I do not lease my skills to anyone who can’t do the job well themselves. Enabling your laziness for credit is not an enticement.”

He sat back with a strange cloud in his eyes. Was he actually offended? She couldn’t tell, but he banished it quickly enough.

“You don’t believe I have any idea how to be a scholar, do you? Just because I made up my field doesn’t mean I’m not academically decent.” He grinned then, but she thought it might be false.

She really hadn’t meant to offend. In truth, she was amused by his visits and childish gifts, and he wasn’t cruel to her. “All right then…I’ll consider your offer—”

“Excellent! I knew I’d win you over eventually.” He took on that sly smirk of victory.

She held up a cautionary hand. “Not so fast. I did not intend to question your abilities. I’m merely convinced that I’m better at research than you, and I won’t help anyone who doesn’t appreciate that.”

“Oh, I appreciate it, but you’re hardly better than me, wench. Yes, you’re better than everyone, and very much better than Catelyn Stark for whom you work might I remind you, but you’re not better than me.” He looked like a predator about to pounce.

Despite his reputation as a hack who’d bought his tenure with Daddy Tywin’s money, Brienne knew Jaime Lannister wasn’t stupid. She’d seen enough of him now to be certain, and the look in his eyes warned her that she might actually be wrong about her assumptions. He might be better than her. Still, she never backed down from a challenge, and it had been a long time since she’d had a proper sparring partner.

“Fine then. I will agree to consider a position as your research partner if you prove your claims of superiority.” She nodded confidently. This would be a win for her no matter what.

His grin was larger than ever. “Name your terms.”

“You will be _my_ assistant until the deadline for research position selection.”

His brows rose in surprise, but there seemed to be some glee taking over his face. He leaned as close as the table’s span allowed. “Accepted. And I won’t need the full three weeks.”

“You will,” she asserted.

He was smart enough to note her expression, that there might be some hidden obstacle she was about to reveal. “I still accept.”

“Good.” She nodded placidly, only a little surprised that she actually meant it.

“Right then, give me my assignment, wench.” He rubbed his hands together like a mad scientist.

She peered at him as intently as she could. “First task, cease calling me that. My name is Brienne.”

“Only if you call me Jaime.”

“I’ve said it’s unprofessional.”

“Less so than _wench_.” He rose from his chair enough to half lay on the table, just so he could poke his finger in the furrow between her brows. He whispered, “I won’t stop.”

She flinched from the contact, unused to any such thing, but she couldn’t stop the tiny smile that twisted her lips. “I believe you. Jaime.”

He plopped back in the chair, not at all gracefully. “Hmm.”

“Second task…” She pointed her own finger in his direction. “Stop saying that. Third task, listen attentively and don’t interrupt me.”

“Gods, you’re a nag. You should teach kindergarten.” Still, there was no malice.

“Small children are afraid of me.” She pulled out her thick notebook to prepare his actual assignment.

“I doubt that. I bet they’d love the friendly giantess who scowled only a little and smiled a lot.”

She had no idea how to respond to that. So she shrugged. “I’m not that friendly.”

“That’s certainly true in my case.” He bit his lower lip without thinking.

It distracted her. She didn’t understand why that was so, and she didn’t like it, but she didn’t want to look away. The paper of her notebook felt familiar under her fingertips, so she quickly bent toward it and began scrawling, soon tearing out a sheet and pushing it across to him. “Here. This is what I need most.”

He squared his shoulders in mock trepidation, pretending to don a pair of glasses and wrinkling his nose as he picked up the paper. “The Bear and the Maiden Faire?”

“Yes.”

“What is it?” He began to show some sense of doubt. “Are you making this up to sabotage me?”

“I wouldn’t do that.” She simply stared again.

He remained silent as he had when his visits first began. “I know. Your eyes are very blue.”

“You’ve said that before.”

“It remains true. I think they appear bluer here where everything is brown,” he mused with a quiet voice.

“Trick of the light,” she said. “It’s a text. I think. I don’t know for sure.”

He cleared his throat and adopted an expression she hadn’t seen before. It was very focused. “Tell me.”

She glanced back at her notes for a moment. “My research so far has led me to find several references to a medieval-era song or poem called _The Bear and the Maiden Faire_. From the Targaryen reconquest or possibly earlier. It might be called any number of things, but as far as I’ve found, no archive has a copy. It might never have been written down.”

He took a moment to absorb the information. “Why do you want it?”

She glared at him.

“Yes, obviously you need it for the thesis. I’ve said I’m not an idiot, by the gods.”

She huffed. “A folk reference to bear baiting would serve as proof of its importance in popular culture.”

“Wait, I thought your thesis was on medieval weaponry?”

Not that again…people at the university paid so little attention to her work they just spread rumors as if they were nothing. “It never has been.”

“Catelyn mentioned it.”

For some odd reason, Brienne felt a little hurt by this. Jaime had no real reason to lie about it, and he did looked genuinely puzzled. “I suppose she’s wrong, too.”

By the way he looked at her, she’d betrayed herself again. “Catelyn is an idiot.”

She felt honor-bound to defend her mentor. “Not at all. She has many students. She just forgot.”

“I wouldn’t forget.” He peered straight at her, and she knew he told the truth.

“It’s bear baiting,” she reasserted unnecessarily. “The impact of the practice on Targaryen-era popular culture and entertainment.”

“Very interesting.” He nodded sagely.

“Don’t mock.” She didn’t know why said it or why the words were sharp.

“Dammit, Brienne, I’m not. I happen to know a bit about baiting because of japing.” He seemed genuinely frustrated.

She let herself exhale her misplaced anxiety, and though she knew the term’s meaning, she asked anyway as a strange apology. “Japing?”

He rolled his eyes in clear recognition that she was feigning ignorance, his tone lilting as if he spoke to a child. “Yes, japing, Brienne. The art of taunting to rile up an opponent. In your case, the insults thrown at men in the baiting ring to encourage them to fight. Or in our case, the art of me speaking to you in the hopes you’ll smile.”

She smiled. It came unbidden.

He remained sarcastic despite his own returning grin. “There it is, the mythical Tarth humor. I never thought to see it.”

She was beginning to doubt her ability to counter him, and she needed space. “You are terrible. Your assignment is to find me that text or more concrete references to it. Off with you.”

He rose from the chair, tucking the paper into his suit pocket with exaggerated care. He bowed, but before he silently left, he pushed the white gift box back in front of her, not waiting for her to open it.

She let the door bang shut before she pulled the end of the red ribbon. Inside the box was a ridiculous, cartoonish stuffed lion with an enormous red heart on its chest, and on the heart was an embroidered, _Be my assistant._

 

 


	2. The Bookcase

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The search for a bear gets a bit heated...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who's read this for such nice feedback!

 

After the acceptance of Brienne's challenge, Jaime had appeared every day, even Saturday when neither of them should have been in the library at all. Brienne was at a dead end in her work, that damned poem one of the last pieces to complete her thesis, and without it, she’d have to find a new trail of evidence. She played card games on her laptop while making it look very serious as she surreptitiously watched Jaime hunch over obscure texts he’d brought from the university’s faculty library. It would have taken the cutting of many a bureaucratic red tape for her to gain access herself.

He rubbed his neck as he read, his jacket flung somewhere and his shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows. He looked frustrated. Served him right.

He glanced up before she could rearrange her features. “Why are you grinning at me?”

“I’m not.”

“Yes, you are.”

“I’m enjoying the impasse you’re facing.” She let herself grin some more.

“It’s been less than a week. Give me time.” He loosened his tie, yanking it around like a noose before ripping it off in disgust.

It accidentally undid the top buttons of his shirt. She only stared for a moment. “One third of the time is gone.”

“Two thirds left.” He arched a brow. “Besides, I’ve got a clue.”

“You haven’t got a clue.” She waited.

“I do, too, on page…oh. You bloody wench!”

He jolted from his chair, grabbing the book he read in one hand, and marched around the table. It was new territory. He’d never been on her side before. He slapped the book down in front of her, looming as she sat and resting both hands on the table on either side of her broad shoulders. She felt ridiculous, the top of her head nearly brushing his neck. His breath ruffled her hair.

He pointed to a passage on the open page. “See? The Chronicles of Harrenhal mentions a bear pit where captives would be thrown to battle the beasts. Even women. Maybe this is the origin of the song.”

Brienne found it hard to respond, the heat of his body enveloping her in a way that made her simultaneously uncomfortable and too comfortable. “Well…I suppose, it’s a tenuous lead, but worth pursuing if there are more records pertaining to Harrenhal in that period.”

“My thoughts exactly.” He paused, still breathing down on her. “I’ll look into it.”

“Yes, do.” She breathed in deeply, her shoulders pressing back into his chest with the motion.

There was no point in continuing the excuse of dialogue. Nothing left to say, and he didn’t need to stand behind her in the first place. Yet he was still there, and he didn’t move for too many seconds. He must have become absorbed by the text, she presumed. She waited silently until his fingers scraped the book away again, and he returned to the proper side of the table without saying another word.

 

* * *

 

On the Monday, he came in a plaid shirt and khakis, and looked nothing like an academic. She frowned at him as he entered her domain.

“What? No good?” He sunk into his chair with a stack of boxed texts.

Because she was clearly invited to, she scanned him and his ridiculous shirt. “You look too young.”

“I’m not that old! Hardly ancient, Brienne. I can’t help that you’re a puppy.”

“I’m not a puppy. I’m twenty-six.”

“I know. You’ve said before. I’m not old enough to be your father anyway.” He grinned saucily.

“You would have been in the Targaryen era,” she accused.

“You don’t even know how old I am. Hardly true.” He opened the top box and withdrew what looked like a terribly delicate parchment.

She wanted to know what it was, but she didn’t ask. “You’re what, forty?”

He feigned offense with a deep gasp and hand pressed to his chest. “Not even! I’m wounded, wench.”

“Ah, you’re thirty-nine.”

He scowled. “Thirty-eight.”

“Close enough.” She returned her gaze to her notebook.

“Yes, close enough to avoid being of age to sire you.”

“What a convoluted description.”

“I’m tired.” He joked, but also seemed truthful.

His eyes did seem sunken in. She nearly felt sorry about it. “Too much drink? A pretty ginger student?”

His scowl was almost frightening. “I didn’t know you thought so badly of me.”

“I don’t. I’m sorry.” She meant it and tried to make him see that with her eyes.

“Hmmph. I’ll have you know I was up all night reading the Harrenhal texts I had overnighted on Saturday. Nothing to speak of. I’m disgusted.”

Brienne was impressed with his dedication. Maybe she really had underestimated him. “I appreciate the effort.”

“You’d better.” He chased away the clouds with a smile. “Besides, I prefer blondes.”

Of course he would. He’d want someone ditzy to stroke his ego. “Plenty of those wandering around campus.”

“I don’t spend time on campus.”

“Maybe you should.” She grinned.

“So you want me gone from this dark and terrible place, then?” His hand rested on the old parchment, his eyes intent on hers.

“No,” she said immediately.

“Good. I’m not going anywhere. And I have no love for students.”

“I’m sure you’re a fantastic teacher, then.” She raised a brow in his direction.

“Personal love, not professional, though they are little brats. Wench.”

She debated whether to remind him, but went ahead. “I’m a student.”

He rolled his eyes. “You are not. You’re nearly a doctor. Not at all the same as those insipid, pleading twats.”

“Tell me how you really feel, Jaime.” She hadn’t said his name in a while, and his eyes snapped to meet hers.

“I feel tired, and excited, and challenged.”

“Glad to be of service.”

“I am glad.”

There was still something she needed to know, though she had no idea why. “Look me in the eye and tell me you’ve never…had someone at university.”

That was a mistake. He did look her in the eye, his green blazing with a strange sort of attentiveness. “I’ve never had someone at university.”

She nodded very professionally, as if it made a difference in her opinion of him. Maybe it did.

“Yet,” he added.

“What?”

He turned down to the parchment. “That blue matches your eyes.”

“Again, what?”

He didn’t look up. “Your blouse. It’s blue.”

“Oh.”

He allowed a brief glance. “You weren’t aware? Are you color blind?”

“Don’t be an idiot, Jaime.”

His grin split his face though his eyes were down. “Can’t help that.”

“I know.” She returned to her own text and wondered how she was supposed to occupy herself once the remaining two weeks were over.

 

* * *

 

Only one week remained. There was a sort of desperation between them as they read and read and read, neither making further progress. The stakes felt much higher than a bit of evidence to complete her thesis. It would still work as it was, though she’d prefer more support, and she had the whole final term to complete it. It was another Monday, and Jaime unceremoniously plopped a bakery box on the table. She’d let it slip that she liked pastries.

“I swear you’re trying to make me fat,” she complained, digging into the box to grasp a fragrant cinnamon bun.

“Don’t worry, your annoyance at me will burn it all off.” He winked as he bit into a matching bun.

“I’m not annoyed with you,” she said very casually as she smiled at the gooey cinnamon.

“Hmm.”

“Now I am.”

“I know.” He threw a napkin at her, though it landed short. “You’ve a bit of…bit, just there.” He fingered a spot above his own lip to indicate.

She made a vague noise of acknowledgment and raised the napkin to her face. “Better?”

“Not at all.” He laughed. “Your aim is terrible.”

She tried again and glared pointedly.

“Still no. Though an icing moustache isn’t a bad look.” He stared for a second before leaning far over the table and brushing his thumb along her lip, the rest of his hand settling against her cheek. It was too hot and too familiar. She said nothing.

He took too long to return to his seat, and there was a strange red stain on his cheeks as he stuck his thumb in his mouth to suck the icing off.

She shook off her reaction in favor of shock. “I can’t believe you did that.”

He shrugged. “You were failing at cleanup.”

“Not that, the…thumb.”

He looked up through long lashes that had no business on a man. “Sharing is caring.”

“You’re…odd.” She chuckled, feeling friendly somehow.

“I know.”

For days, she thought about the way his skin had felt. There were only four left before the deadline, though she’d already decided to accept the position with Jaime provided he never called her “assistant.” She knew he’d slip, giving her leverage to taunt him.

That assurance of her future for one term at least was not enough to distract her from the issue of the skin. It had taken her a whole day to realize she’d liked the way his thumb brushed her lip. Another day to admit she wanted to feel it again. And another to acknowledge that wanting him to touch her probably meant she was attracted to him, an old, egotistical, gorgeous lion who would never, ever want her in that way. On the fourth day, that day, she accepted the depression of the situation, and it colored her mood sour.

Jaime sauntered in with the pastry box, the scent of almond crème wafting about. She didn’t want to see him and his silky hair and his smirk. She knew he could tell since he set the box down carefully and leaned on his fists instead of sitting.

“What’s happened?” his tone seemed laced with concern.

She didn’t look up from her notebook. “Nothing.”

“You’re upset.”

“I’m tired.”

“That’s not your tired face, that’s your upset face.” He did sit then, but cautiously.

She couldn’t stop herself from meeting his gaze. “Are you cataloguing my faces now?”

“Daily.” He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

She sighed, trying to banish the new gloom she felt from his presence. “I’m frustrated. I think I’ve put too much importance on that damned song.”

He grimaced and looked down. “I’m trying, Brienne. This has been harder than I expected, and I admire your pursuit of the obscure.”

“I’m not frustrated with you. Despite the strange nature of this…partnership, I still appreciate the work you’ve put in. It’s far more than I anticipated, Jaime.” She reached out a long arm and touched his hand without even thinking about it.

He stared at her fingers. “I want you to succeed.”

“Why?” she muttered, knowing how odd it sounded.

His eyes snapped up. “Because I like you.”

She wanted to scoff as she usually did when someone said something nice and didn’t really mean it, but she knew that wasn’t the situation with Jaime. “Yes, well…I suppose I like you, too.”

His eyes lit up like sun glinting off emeralds. “Be my assistant.”

“Okay.” She averted her gaze.

“Please?” he rushed out before she was even done, and then he stopped. “Wait, what?”

“I said okay.”

He was silent until she looked at him. “Are you sure, wench? No turning back.”

“Yes, I’m sure, but if you call me anything other than my actual name, I will quit immediately and leave you hanging and tell everyone you flirt shamelessly and try to make people fat.” She took up her pen to occupy her hands with twiddling.

That sly look arrived. “You noticed.”

“Noticed what?”

“I flirt shamelessly.”

“Yes, you do.” She nodded sagely.

“I didn’t think you got it.”

“I don’t get what you mean now. I get that you flirt.” She shrugged since it was just one of his absurd habits.

“No, you really don’t.” He leaned on his elbows, half on the table. “Tell me, Brienne, how do you know I’m a shameless flirt?”

“Because you flirt all the time. It’s natural to you.” There was an unspoken "obviously" there.

“You only see me here.”

“Yes, and you’re shameless.”

“Here.” He nodded around at the library corner.

“Yes.”

“With you.” He nodded straight at her.

“I’m the only one here.”

“Yes.” He nodded again as if she were a complete idiot.

She took a long while to stare at him and his strong hands and that bit of skin that showed above his open collar. “I don’t understand.”

“I told you that.” He collapsed back into his chair. “Ah, Brienne, you are thick sometimes.”

“You’re not supposed to mock me,” she complained.

“Not mocking, truth telling.” He tapped his skull. “Think about it. Long and hard.” And then he chuckled to himself.

She just shook her head and returned to her notes.

“Oh yes, I have a lead.” He said this as if it were peripheral.

“What? Why didn’t you say so?” She wanted to throw her pen at his head.

“I was busy flirting.”

She grimaced and _did_ throw her pen with precision at his hand. It left a sharp blue stain on the skin.

“Ouch!”

“Infant.”

“Grumpkin. Anyway, one of the Harrenhal texts mentioned a set of histories sent to House Tyrell as a gift for a wedding. If any of those still exist, they’ll be in the hands of the Tyrell descendants since I could find no mention of donations to institutions over the centuries. My family knows them, so I might have an in.” He shrugged.

“Jaime, this is huge! They might have endless materials on the bear pits!” She was so excited at this prospect of new evidence that she felt her cheeks stain red and her eyes widen.

He looked sad. It was there, right in his eyes. She didn’t understand. He slid a box over to her that was old and brittle with barely legible labels on the top. “This is the text where the gift is mentioned. Have a look.”

She hurriedly but carefully set the lid aside and removed a velvet-wrapped folio, crumbling and dusty as the desert. She carefully folded aside the velvet to open a page Jaime had tabbed with a strip of thinnest linen. The passage was short but important, and she looked up, still with glee. “Thank you, Jaime. Really. I’d never have found this myself.”

He smiled but didn’t meet her gaze. “Well, I did try.”

She chuckled under her breath, re-reading the passage, but the movement of air dislodged a cloud of medieval dust containing gods knew what kind of spores. They fluttered about her nose until they made her sneeze violently, churning even more detritus into the air. She struggled against the desire to expel all the air in her lungs and to protect the folio, hastily folding the velvet again and covering it with her arms as she purged.

Jaime had laughed immediately, and now he continued as she felt the lightness of a tissue land on her hand. “Gods, wench, take a breath.”

“Can’t,” she stuttered. She still protected the precious text with her arms, so she turned her face away to sneeze again. Into the lid of the box where miniscule fragments of label and paper flew into her face.

She forgot about the folio, bringing a dusty hand to cover her eye. “Ow.”

Jaime’s chair scraped back immediately. “What did you do?”

“Damned old thing. Something got in my eye.” She fumbled for the tissue but failed as water began pouring from her tear ducts.

For only the second time, Jaime dared to inhabit her side of the table, making a record trip. He pulled her chair back easily despite her weight in it, and gripped her elbows to make her stand.

“Let me see,” he demanded.

She cautiously dropped her hand, damp from the stupid amount of water the dust produced. She sucked in a breath, but that had nothing to do with dust and everything to do with Jaime standing inches away from her, just this side of decent. She was taller than him, but not by much. Not enough that he couldn’t look into her eyes without straining.

He raised gentle fingers to pry her lids apart, peering inside her head as if he tried to read her secrets.

“Look up,” he asked in that same gruff voice.

She did.

“Down.”

She did.

“Left,” then, “right.”

She did.

He held a clean tissue to catch the slowing stream of water, raising it closer to peer at a speck of black. “Here’s the culprit. Little bastard.”

She laughed loudly, the motion pressing her against his chest in staccato strikes. “Yes, my bitter enemy, Ser Dustmote of Moldslands.”

He wasn’t laughing. He dropped the tissue to let it flutter away, forgotten, and he stepped closer though there was no room to step at all.

“What are you doing?” she demanded with appropriate seriousness and maybe a little fear.

“No idea,” he muttered, still looking into her eyes.

“You always know what you’re doing.”

“You don’t. You think because I flirt here, and you’re the only one here to flirt at, I must therefore flirt at anyone and everyone when I absolutely do not.”

She had to cross her eyes to focus on his face. “What are you babbling about?”

“Flirting. I’m not one. A flirt. I flirt at you but you reject it.” He pressed into her until her back was bitten by the edges of books on shelves.

She caught on slowly and then in rush of things she didn’t know what to do with. “I…I didn’t know.”

“I know.”

She had to ask. “Why would you flirt at me?”

He growled, loudly and forcefully. “Because I’m a masochist apparently. And because I can’t flirt with you since you won’t flirt back.”

Her words were whispered and harsh. “I don’t know how. People don’t flirt at me. Ever.”

“I’m not people.” Still he stared straight at her, his chest pressing against her small breasts.

“No,” she had to admit. “You’re Jaime.”

He shuttered his eyes for just second as he growled again, deep in his throat. “Say it again.”

She didn’t bother to ask for clarification. “Jaime.”

“Oh, fuck,” he muttered as if giving something up.

And then his mouth slammed against hers with a harsh sort of softness, and she didn’t have to wonder what his skin felt like anymore. He pressed her even further between the craggy bookshelf and the hard warmth of his body, his arms braced on either side of her until one wound around her muscled torso and the other gripped the back of her neck. She’d never been kissed like that, like her lips might be wanted. She’d only been kissed as if it were a service to her or simply because she was a woman with some sort of breasts, and to some men, any woman was better than none.

Brienne had to remember sometimes, that she was a woman and not just a scholar. She remembered now, because Jaime certainly wouldn’t let her forget about the beat of his heart against her breasts, or the hardness of him against her thigh. Or the smooth slide of his tongue over her bottom lip before he pushed into her mouth, not asking if she wanted it. He didn’t have to. She slid her arms around his neck, her fingers into his lovely hair and pulled him into her until she couldn’t breathe anymore and sucked in spurts of air through her nose as she grew lightheaded.

The hand on her waist slid down, and further, gliding over her back to settle somewhere indecent. She broke contact for the fraction of a second it took to fill her lungs and then claimed him again before he could even smile. His phone rang in his pocket.

He gave no indication of noticing, but she couldn’t ignore the insistent ring. She tried to pull back. He followed with a grin and took her lips more gently this time. The ringing didn’t stop.

“Jaime,” she muttered as his mouth fell to her throat.

“Dammit.” He let his forehead drop to her shoulder and fished out the phone. “Hello?”

She could hear a formal voice on the other end, but not the words. She wasn’t trying that hard as Jaime’s free hand stroked her neck, down her side, spanning her ribs just below her breast until her chest heaved shamelessly just from breathing.

He took a step back, glancing at her with a brilliant glow to his eyes. “Yes, of course. Right away.” He shoved the phone back in his pocket and smiled widely. “I’ve got to go. I’ll explain later, but I don’t think you’ll be disappointed.”

All she could say was “What?” in an embarrassingly high pitch.

He didn’t laugh. He grunted, or something, and grabbed her for one last explicit kiss that made her collapse against the bookshelf with the taste of his tongue flooding her memory. When she opened her eyes, he was out of sight, and then the giant old door banged shut.

She waited until her legs felt solid enough to carry her, and returned to her chair.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time...the climax. Yeah, that was a double entendre. I'm sure it was super hard to parse for subtext and stuff.


	3. The Table

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I said Saturday for this last chapter, but I've been convinced otherwise. It's now Smut-Friday. 
> 
> Fair warning, this starts with a teeny bit of angst (it is Brienne-angsty-pants after all), but then it's fluffy and smutty, and then ultra fluffy. I don't even know how that happened.

 

If not for the necessity of sleep and probably food, and the unforgiving cramp in her ass from sitting for hours in the hard chair, Brienne would not have left the library the next day. Saturday. She’d come as usual and skipped breakfast because of the reliable pastry box. She’d waited a long while, and Jaime hadn't yet come.

All her features formed a collective of calm. Nothing about her face as a whole would have given her away, but each part told its own story for anyone who might have looked closely enough. Of course, the only person able to interpret was the person who caused the nearly imperceptible tightening around her eyes, the tick at the corner of her lip, the pinch of her nostrils.

She couldn’t decide whether she was wildly ashamed of her behavior with him or whether she was more angry that he’d left before things got really interesting. Maybe he’d decided he could do better, which was certainly true. Probably, once he’d stepped into the sunlight, he’d realized his momentary lapse of judgment in pouncing on the giant beast-woman. Maybe he was having a pre-mid-life crisis.

She didn’t know why she did it, or maybe she did and couldn’t admit, but she withdrew the phone she barely used from her pocket and entered a search for his name. If she could just see his face, she might be able to gauge if he looked at her with any sort of preference. If he looked at her differently. She knew she’d find photos because of his family’s importance and because of the university portraits.

The first item that appeared was a news photo from just an hour before, such was modern technology, still somewhat unbelievable to her medievally-occupied mind. So she knew where he was at that very moment, at a party in a glittering manse, wearing a beautiful black suit and a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. She could tell that. He shook the hand of Renly Baratheon, the man running for prime minister against the current regime as the term came up.

“ _Baratheon cements campaign with endorsement from Lannister family and significant contribution,”_ the tagline read.

He could have told her he’d be away. She wasn’t supposed to be disappointed. He’d said that quite clearly between bouts of sucking her lips, but she definitely was disappointed. In the darkness of night when the moon refused to flood the glass ceiling anymore, she stood and let the stacks fall behind her like dutiful sentinels. She let them rest as she gently guided the library door closed.

 

* * *

 

It was the last day, though she wasn’t sure anymore what that meant. She’d accepted Jaime’s research position and could not withdraw for any good, professional reason, so she was now stuck in a mortifying quandary. She’d just have to act as if nothing had happened when she saw him next. Probably at his own office after she’d signed the form tying her to him for the whole term. She’d appear, ready for duty, and live up to her reputation as the best, despite the personal turmoil that would stain every interaction she’d have with him. It wasn’t as if she were unfamiliar with such a thing. Still, it had been Jaime, and he’d feigned wanting her with expertise, and maybe he even had for a moment that didn’t last and embarrassed him.

So she returned to her chair behind the table and continued with her work as if she hadn’t had a tongue in her mouth showing her what glorious meant. Her blue eyes darted up, and she jumped when she heard the library door open. She hadn’t expected it.

He wore an enormous grin and a very nice suit with a blue tie. One hand carried a briefcase that looked insanely expensive, and the other a pastry box.

“Good morning, wench,” he said without any apparent clue of her discomfort. “I come bearing gifts. Well, I always have gifts, but this time I mean _real_ gifts. A gift. Singular. Whatever.”

He didn’t look at her as he plopped the pastry box onto the table hard enough for a puff of sugar to escape. He set the briefcase down much more carefully, rolling three numbers to form the magical opening combination. The lid popped up to block her view of the contents, but she couldn’t stop herself from watching the expression of unadulterated glee paint his face as he peered inside. His hands dove in to grasp something seemingly delicate.

He briefly glanced at her then back at the thing. “I told you I was better than you.”

She winced, not able to stop it. “I know that.”

There must have been something in her tone. His grin faltered as his gaze abandoned the thing in favor of her eyes, and then he was all seriousness and false worry. “What’s happened?”

“Nothing,” she answered immediately and honestly.

His head tilted at an analytical angle. “Don’t pull that again, Brienne. I’ll get it out of you.”

“There’s nothing to get.”

There seemed to be a lascivious glint to his green eyes then. “I disagree.”

“Don’t,” she demanded in the harshest tone she’d ever used.

His features fell one by one until he looked almost pained. “What did I do?”

She remained silent.

He placed the _thing_ back in the case, and leaned on his fists with the cruel table as support. “I’d rather you spit at me than this.”

She supposed it might be possible for him to be so cocky that he really didn’t understand he couldn’t just kiss her and grope her and leave her alone without another word. “I’m…I wish you had told me not to expect you on Saturday. I would have understood that you were uncomfortable.”

Her voice was carefully modulated and professional. His was not.

“What?” Loud and echoing. “Yes, I was damned uncomfortable the entire night and the next day, and really now as well. But I don’t think that’s what you mean.”

“You were at a party.” It was almost an accusation, but she didn’t know how to say the things she didn’t want to.

It took him a long moment, but she saw when he understood. He blanched with all the red of his anger draining away. His eyes widened. “Oh gods, you think…”

She folded her hands together over her notebook and didn’t look away.

“You do…gods, you do. You think I skipped out on you because I was suddenly overcome with hideous regret over snogging you like a teenager.” He scrunched his nose up in way she’d find endearing if she weren’t busy being conflicted. “And you looked me up!”

She couldn’t very well deny it. “I…didn’t know how to contact you.”

He peered at her with some mix of amusement and confusion. “I’m in the directory.”

“If you weren’t busy, you would have been here and not in your office. Obviously.” He was making her so mad, just standing there with his stupid suit and his beautiful hair.

“It’s clearly not obvious if you think I ditched you for a _party_!” He spat the word like it was a bad taste. “And besides, I told you I’d be back. It just took me longer than I expected.”

She was over her head completely. Silence protected her, she knew from experience, so silence it was.

He abruptly looked as if a revelation had hit him on the head. “You don’t believe I’m interested in you.”

“You can’t be interested in me.” It came out unbidden, and her cheeks flushed immediately. She couldn’t look at him anymore.

“Can’t because you think it unbelievable or can’t because I’m not allowed?” His voice was softer but there remained a bit of steel in it. “The former is stupid, and as you’re not a stupid woman, get over it. The latter…I could say I’d make you allow me, but that wouldn’t exactly be fair. I’m not going to bother wanting you if you don’t want me back.”

She felt her eyes move, her body betraying her again by doing all these things her mind didn’t want it to. His gaze was made of knives that left pinpricks in her composure. He knew she wanted him, she could see it.

He drew in a breath and exhaled instantly, removing his hands from the table and lifting the _thing_ from the case for the second time. He set it in front of her, a rectangle wrapped in supple leather with silver filigree swirls stamped upon it. She recognized a long-abandoned sigil of the old houses, House Tyrell.

“Open it,” Jaime demanded harshly with no room for argument.

Her fingers felt stiff as she unwound the thin cord from the front, folding the leather back from a text. The binding was newer than the pages, probably an early-parliamentary attempt at restoration. The stitches were made of cat gut. By the ink and parchment and the style of arrangement, it was certainly a Targaryen-era text. There was a linen strip marking a place. She was almost nervous to draw the text open and stare at the pages, and soon she saw an inscription by a maester of Harrenhal. Qyburn, spelled the old way. Her mind was not engaged in the tale the maester wove, though she scanned it diligently. She was too occupied by the present.

“It’s what you wanted, Brienne.” He still sounded rough. “It tells of the bear pit, the baiting…it’s a story as you see. It goes on for pages. A noble lady was captured and thrown into the pit to fight a bear, but before she was killed, a man with one hand jumped into the pit and slew the bear. She took his knife and skinned the bear, and thereafter, he wore the skin as a sign of her favor and was called The Bear, and they left together. A bard wrote a song about it, The Bear and the Maiden Faire. It’s surprisingly sexual.”

He growled out all these words as she stared at the page, unseeing, but then she had to look at him. His arms were crossed over his chest, but she knew somehow it was defensive rather than angry. She was hurting him.

He glared and pleaded both. “I should say I’m sorry I didn’t show on Saturday, but you do realize you’ve never given me your number. I admit I didn’t understand how you’d take it. I was distracted. Understandably, I think. You see, I’d just had my mouth on the delectable lips of a particularly difficult wench, after weeks and weeks of staring at her across a table and wishing she’d just jump me, and then I get a phone call that the ancient Tyrell matriarch has a text that matches exactly what I’ve been looking for. Again, for the difficult wench, and so I leave to get it for her like a good knight in shining armor.”

Brienne couldn’t keep up with his rapid-fire phrases, but she didn’t let her gaze fall away.

He plowed forward. “And it just so happens that Olenna Tyrell is an absolute terror and refused to lend me the text unless I endorsed the insipid husband of her granddaughter for prime minister, publicly. He’s gay, you know, but you didn’t hear it from me. So there I was, playing a posh old Lannister, and after, the hag hands me the box you see before you, and I see what’s inside, and there I was, crawling out of my skin to hand it to you, just to see the look on your face. And now you look sour, and I’m very upset about that.”

He wasn’t lying. His jaw was clenched so hard she swore she heard his teeth grind together. She had no idea what to say. It wasn’t a simple thing of just accepting that he might really like her or think her lips were worth kissing. No one had ever gone to this much trouble for her, not even close. She wanted to laugh at the disparity between all prior experience with life and this day. She tried to think of good words. They wouldn’t come.

Maybe if she could indicate that she wanted him there, across from her at the table and helping with her thesis, and also the thing where he didn’t stay across from her at the table and slid to her side, maybe she could get that out all right. She said his name slowly and carefully. “Jaime…how long do we have? With the text, I mean? How long will we work with it?”

She could see immediately that she’d ruined it. His body jerked back an inch or so. It was quiet, but she saw it and the dismay twisting his lips down. She’d ruined it with her thick head.

He shoved his hands in his pockets and clenched them into fists through the fine cloth though his expression was a strange mix of annoyance and challenge. “All the time you want, Brienne, it’s yours. I told you it was a gift.”

He spun before that last word had time to float across the table, and she heard him marching through the stacks. In seconds, the severe old door banged shut. She was alone in the library as she had always been, had always wanted to be, and she hated it. She looked down on the precious text he’d found for her, her fingers tracing flat words that meant more than the maester would ever have supposed. They belonged to her now. The text was a gift.

But _how_ could it belong to her? It was the old Tyrell woman’s, a relic of her ancestors, and Jaime had said he’d coaxed her into lending it. The press photo flooded her mind, and she knew then exactly what he’d done. That sizeable contribution from “the Lannister family” had been from Jaime alone. It had bought her a bear.

“Oh, fuck.”

She jolted from her chair so fast it slammed into the books behind her, knocking a few to the ground. She had no time to circle the expanse of table, so she slid across it a foot away from her gift, and darted through the stacks until she nearly ran into the door. Her strength allowed her to open it in one pull, and she had to squint from the sudden intrusion of light flooding around her from the whiteness of the museum wing outside.

She glanced in every direction, straining to find traces of golden hair or glinty green. Maybe an angry professor mumbling insults to strangers. There was no sign of him, and she knew he wouldn’t return to his office at the university. It wouldn’t be that simple. She had no phone number, no address. Nothing.

She’d look a right fool if she showed up to one of his classes, but she’d have to do it. Just sit in a chair with the lowly undergraduates until he couldn’t tolerate her apologetic stare any longer and ended the session. Maybe he’d drag her to his office where she could convince him she was horribly sorry about misjudging him. He didn’t know what it was like for her. She’d explain until he did understand, and then maybe she’d forget she was too tall and had a broken nose and try to make him remember the taste of her tongue as his had branded itself in her memory. And then she’d give him her phone number.

She mumbled as she yanked the library door open, kicking a marble pillar in frustration and half-hopping down the stacks from the stupid pain of it. In her dim corner, behind her ancient table, there he sat in her chair with his feet up and his hands folded behind his head. She stared at him, or possibly glared.

“You never left!”

“Can’t help that you assumed I did.”

“You said you wouldn’t bother wanting me.” She dared him to deny it.

“That was a lie.”

“You jackass!” She shouted loud enough to echo.

“Most of the time, yes.” He grinned a sort of victory grin. He’d known she’d come after him, dammit.

“Get out of my chair.” She leaned on her fists on the table, feeling odd about standing on the wrong side.

He rose gracefully to mimic her. “Certainly.”

Their eyes met across the span, and she grew serious. “Why did you…not leave?”

“I didn’t want to. But I had to know if you wanted me to.” He seemed a little hesitant, bashful even. “And you had to know if you wanted me to.”

“I…I see.” And she did. “I don’t know how to thank you, Jaime. Or apologize. Really. I…have a hard time with…people.”

He accepted the gravity of her attempt. “I’m not people.”

“I know.”

Then he lightened, that wicked glint returning to make him a sly old fox. “And I can think of many ways to thank me. And to apologize. And I can start by saying that I am truly sorry for making you feel unwanted, and that I didn’t do a better job of asserting the exact opposite, and that I am most often a jackass.”

“I don’t mind you being a jackass.”

“I know.”

She didn’t know what to do with her body, thrumming as it was from being so close to him but not nearly close enough. She leaned forward on her knuckles, expecting him to do the same until maybe their faces could merge in certain places, but instead, he stepped away. His back met the bookcase where he had so recently pressed into her.

“Come here,” he demanded.

So for the second time in a day, she had no time to make the journey ‘round and instead slid across the slick wood to the right side. He’d shed his jacket and tie already, probably when she’d dashed madcap to pursue him, so she stood to her full height, just out of his reach, and peered straight into the green with a sheepish sort of confidence that seemed to be getting away from her.

“Yes, boss.”

His eyes bugged out. “I really can’t decide if I like it better when you mock me or pretend to be all shy.”

“Both.”

He nodded thoughtfully. “Yes, that’s true.”

“And shut up. I’m trying to apologize.”

“You’ve already done that, but I suppose I can take another. How might you go about it.” He bit his lip and grinned with his eyes.

She pointed at his chest. “Off with it.”

Yes, she could certainly get used to that cocky grin, colored with even bawdier shades than his usual version. He nearly ripped the shirt off. She wanted to tangle her fingers in the golden curls covering his chest, but instead, without tearing her eyes from his, she yanked her blouse over her head in one motion, though it caught around her shoulders for a moment. His eyes strayed in the split second her face was obscured by cloth. She rarely needed undergarments to contain her insignificant breasts, and maybe now she was glad of it. One less thing to divest, and the way he bit his lower lip seemed to indicate that he wasn’t repulsed by what he saw.

She caught him off guard as she used the advantage of her long legs to step against his body in one stride. It took him only an instant to wrap his arms around her freckled skin and snake his tongue into her mouth like she’d been desperate for. She braced her hands against the bookcase and pressed and pressed as he had done, but it wasn’t close enough. Even dust couldn’t slide through the non-existent space between them, but it wasn’t close enough.

She muttered things about this problem through his kisses, but he merely tilted his head the other way to experience a new angle of looting until she thought she might accidentally swallow him somehow. His hands were all over her skin, and he pushed forward with a show of strength she hadn’t suspected he possessed. It was a little overwhelming, powerful enough to move her large body when it didn’t want to be moved. She liked it.

But she pushed back anyway, slamming him against the bookcase once more as she writhed on him and scraped her tongue against his neck. His chuckle made the hair on his chest rub against her nipples until she moaned indecently.

“So that’s how it’s going to be, wench? A power struggle?” He bent hid head to lick the length of her collarbone.

“Yes.”

“That’s fine. I’m stronger than you.”

“No you’re not.” She held him in place just because.

He peered at her, standing at _his_ full height, and though he was an inch or so shorter than her, she couldn’t feel it by the way he loomed there, all corded muscle and smooth planes of skin.

“I am,” he insisted with a smirk before pushing her forcefully all the way into the table until she had to set her ass on it or risk sliding to the floor.

He pushed more, gently but powerfully. Her back hit the table, and he lifted her until she lay there with his body clamping her down. She couldn’t move from under him. It was a shocking thing to comprehend, that he really was stronger, and it made her snap and become something wild and out of character. She attacked his mouth and scraped her nails along his back, feeling his hardness grind into her thigh until she wanted to rip her skirt into pieces just because it offended her.

He broke for air and licked her breast, muttering against her skin, “You like it that I’m stronger.”

“Yes,” she admitted in a stupid high pitch.

“I could even carry you. I could pick you up, and wrap you around my body, and fuck you against that bookcase, and I wouldn’t drop you.”

“Yes, do that,” she begged.

“Some other time. I quite like this table at the moment.” He took her other breast between his teeth.

“Yes, nice table.”

He abruptly rose to his elbows and stared down at her. “No other man would be strong enough to fuck you against a bookcase.”

He seemed to need some odd confirmation of this, so she nodded manically. “That’s probably true. And I wouldn’t let them.”

He growled like a beast and kissed her as his hand slid down to test how wet she was, which was roughly the level of a monsoon. His head popped up annoyingly. “No other man would get you this wet.”

She growled this time. “Shut up, Jaime!”

He grinned and returned to her mouth, and this time he didn’t stop for stupid words. She fumbled to get his belt off, and it wacked him on the ass from the recoil. He just pressed into her harder. She got his trousers undone after a battle with his hands trying to rip her smallclothes away, but neither of them cared about useless fabric once she had her legs wrapped around his waist.                

“Gods, you have the longest legs in the world. And the bluest eyes. Astonishingly beautiful,” he murmured as he switched between her lips and her breasts because he couldn’t decide which he liked better.

If his cock weren’t an inch away from where she wanted it to be more than she wanted to breathe, she might have teared up from such a compliment. It’s like had never been paid her before. As it was, she barely heard and used those legs he so admired to pull his ass closer.

“You do babble on,” she complained.

“That’s because I’m a jackass.” He kissed her into the table until she expected to fall straight through the wood onto the ground.

And then she felt the stretch of him pushing into her, and all at once in a long stroke he was there inside until she forgot what all the things were that weren’t sex. There were no other things, not air, not texts. Just sex on a table in a library.

She arched her back as he bit her nipple, and he reached one hand up to wrap around the edge of the table above her head, using it to pull himself in with even more powerful movements.

“Oh gods,” she mewled like a sick cat.

“Who’s babbling now?” he licked her neck and bit down.

It’d leave a mark she’d never had before. She thought she might get it tattooed. She had no idea what to do with her restless hands, so she clawed them along his skin and tangled them in his hair, and they wrapped themselves around each other as he thrust with an addictive strength. She wasn’t afraid of injuring him just by touching. He wasn’t fragile.

She bit his earlobe, and he growled again in that way she really, really liked. He used the hand not gripping the table to wrap around her neck and hold her so he could claim her mouth in a breathless affection, and with one final pull on the table ledge, hit a spot she didn’t know she had. She broke from him to cry out, maybe his name, maybe nonsense, and she saw flashing lights behind her eyes as her body convinced her it was a lovely thing capable of forging beauty with him.

His strength manifested all at once as he pulsed into her with a tension she absorbed through the limbs that clung to him, and then he collapsed against her skin with a heavy burst of breath. They remained that way for quite some time.

Her breasts were slick with sweat. She liked that it was just as much his as her own. She liked that her thighs were sticky. She liked that he knew he could rest on her without hurting her.

He mumbled against her shoulder. “Well, that was surprising.”

She was learning to stifle her instinct to be automatically offended, so her tone was attempted mischief. “You didn’t think it would be good?”

He laughed softly. “Oh, I knew it would be good. I didn’t know it would be…surprising.”

“You’re a jackass.”

He rose to one elbow and peered down at her. “I’m a jackass who fucked you on a library table, and it was very delicious and surprising, and I’d like to do it again in about ten minutes.”

“Ten? You’re too old for that. Maybe an hour.”

“Bloody wench,” he babbled as he kissed her and let her feel his skin all she wanted.

 

* * *

 

The term was finished a few months later, and because of Jaime’s ridiculous, incredible gift, Brienne completed her thesis before the deadline. She stood her ground as she presented, not allowing the doubting, disapproving looks of the scholars to daunt her. She’d practiced well and hard, and she’d been properly fucked in Jaime’s office right before, so there was nothing more to prepare her for the judgment.

He was waiting for her in the library with hands in pockets, pacing back and forth behind the table with uncharacteristic nerves. She didn’t allow her expression to change as she circled the old wood to meet him. His eyes snapped up with questions haunting them.

“If you were so confident I’d do well, why do you look so pinched?” she teased.

“I don’t look _pinched_. What does that even mean?” He unconsciously gripped her hands in his and pulled her close.

“It means what it means. And don’t you want to know how it went?” She freed her hands so she could fold her arms around his neck. Her breasts missed the pressure of his body.

“It went fine. Your work is brilliant, and you are brilliant. I’m merely worried that they were brutal to you.” He kissed her lightly.

She kissed him hard. “Thank you for your confidence in me. And yes, I am now officially a doctor, and therefore your equal in title as well as everything else there is, but that was true before. They were begrudgingly pleasant.”

“That’s a relief, and I do believe I’m still better at research and also stronger, and you like both those things.” He bit her lip not gently.

“I concede the latter, but the former…I’m still in doubt about that.”

“Good thing you’re my assistant then.” He let his forehead sink to her shoulder as she palmed his hardening cock over his nuisance trousers.

“I have never been your assistant, and I am now your partner, so there will be plenty of opportunity to prove I’m right.”

She still didn’t quite believe that she’d gotten a job in the university department where Jaime taught. History. It was delicious how close their offices would be, and very convenient for lascivious encounters between classes.

“How glad I am of that,” he mumbled against her lips. “And I have a gift for you, as congratulations.”

“Your cock is not a gift, Jaime. We’ve been through this before. Your cock is simply my possession.” She growled as he settled one hand on her ass and reached the other towards the table.

“I won’t argue that issue now. Later, yes, but here…”

He produced a white box tied with a red ribbon. There was hardly space to open it as they were so close together, but she managed despite the distraction of both his hands on her ass now. Inside was a stuffed lion, the same as the one he’d given her before, but this time, the words on the heart were fewer. _Be mine._

If he expected her to melt in a puddle of lust and gratitude, he’d be disappointed. At least about the gratitude. She rolled her hips until his pupils turned black, staring right at him. “That has been true for a while, Jaime. But I’m glad you’re aware of it.”

“Gods, wench, you’re going to kill me.”

“I would never risk losing your cock. And I do think you owe me, Jaime.”

“I owe you everything.” He didn’t seem so light about that.

She didn’t feel like being serious, though there were times when they both mumbled serious things. “What I’m thinking of has to do with a bookcase, if I remember correctly.”

That sly grin appeared. “Yes, I seem to recall. What was it? Something about my god-like strength and sexual prowess.”

“Shut up, Jaime.”

For once, he did, and he lifted her up with no sign of strain until her legs cradled his hips, and he spun her until the books dug into her back. He kissed her for a long, lusty span.

“What are you waiting for? If you want to fuck me against a bookcase, fuck me against a bookcase,” she nagged.

So he did.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope it was good for you. 
> 
> This is the end. I'm sad about it. Oh well. I've got something new for next week :-D


End file.
